


pink in the night

by goldfwish



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, literally just disgustingly sweet fluff, this fic is the definition of tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:01:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23541241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfwish/pseuds/goldfwish
Summary: Tell me that you need me, that our ankles linked together are the one thing tethering you here, that without it the stars would consume you, swallow you whole, spit you back out as nothing but dust.Tell me that you need me, because I can’t say it first.A quiet moment by a campfire, featuring nose kisses and our boys being dorks who don't know how to use their words.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 106





	pink in the night

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.  
> Title comes from the lovely musical goddess Mitski, ofc.
> 
> It's been a hot minute since I've written a fic for any fandom but I had a burst of inspiration while writing a poem for [Escapril](https://www.savbrown.com/escapril) and now here we are.

_Tell me that you need me, that our ankles linked together are the one thing tethering you here, that without it the stars would consume you, swallow you whole, spit you back out as nothing but dust._

_Tell me that you need me, because I can’t say it first._

This is what Jaskier thinks at night, in the light of the moon and the fire, and this is what he whispers to himself when they find themselves in the warmth of a shared bedroll, Geralt fast asleep, their legs intertwined and an arm draped across Jaskier’s waist. Roach snuffles as she rests behind them, and the sounds of the nighttime wildlife mingle with the crackling of burning wood to create the background music for Jaskier’s yearning inner monologue.

They lay under the canopy of the forest, and this close, Jaskier can feel Geralt’s heartbeat under his fingertips: slow, so, so slow, yet beating and sure and _alive_. Jaskier marvels in it, his solidity, his presence. He inhales the scent of him, that dirt and death and begrudging compassion. He savors every breath of it, sucks in the memory of it through his teeth, storing it in his cheek. He loves it, unique as it is. He never wants to let it go. 

Jaskier never wants to let him go. 

Geralt’s nose, as if in unconscious sympathy, twitches, and Jaskier smiles. In his rush of endearment, he doesn’t stop himself from bringing his lips to the tip of it, brushing a gentle kiss to the skin.

Geralt’s eyes open, snapping awake from the touch, and Jaskier can feel him tense, his legs almost jerking away from their tangle. But then they’re looking at each other, sunset on ocean blue, and Geralt softens. He settles back into their embrace, repositioning his arm so his hand cradles Jaskier’s hip. In his eyes, Jaskier can see it. The fondness, the reciprocation. That Geralt doesn’t love him too isn’t what holds him back from telling him.

Because with anyone else, the confirmation that Jaskier’s attraction is returned would spring him into a frenzy, charming flirtations serenading the fair man or maiden, relentless and bold.

No, instead, the reason is this: this love of his, this aching, _squeezing_ love, this one, is different from the rest. When Geralt’s lips turn up in an impossibly tender smile, and the fire turns his gaze on Jaskier even softer still, almost reverent, the warmth he is flooded with consumes him. Jaskier can feel it in his every cell, the way his stomach twists itself into pieces, the way his heart ignites, the way his very soul gets lost in the entanglement of it. He is drowning.

“Do it again,” Geralt says, breaching the gentle and tortured silence.

“Do what again?” Jaskier whispers, and the hand on his hip tightens, almost imperceptibly, but evident all the same in the way Jaskier’s skin tingles.

“...Kiss my nose.” 

A blush, barely there yet blinding with its rarity, sprawls across Geralt’s cheeks.

And as Jaskier’s grin widens and he rushes to comply, he thinks maybe they don’t need to say it out loud. Maybe, they can just be this, and have it be their own.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3  
> This fic is also on [my Tumblr](https://goldfwish.tumblr.com/post/614812099587325952/pink-in-the-night-geraskier-tell-me-that-you)


End file.
